Shimmer
by racefh853629
Summary: One shot, set somewhere within the season 6 timeline. Being alone gives you plenty of time to recollect.


A/N: I don't own CSI:NY, CBS, or any other known entity. The title and lyrics at the end come from "Shimmer" by Fuel, which I also don't own and am not associated with. This story takes place two months after "Pay Up," and is loosely based around some of the Season 6 storyline. I hope you guys enjoy the story, and please review. :D

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Shimmer

Your body is cold and tired, but your mind is racing and refuses to let you sleep. Your broken heart is resistant to healing, yet your eyes are cried out of any tears that you have.

The only thing burning through you is anger.

Anger for your broken heart. Anger at the men who took her from you. Anger at God and the angels for allowing this tragedy to happen. Anger that the only things you have left of her are the few pictures you two took together and her things still occupying their spots in her apartment.

You know that you're not handling things well, but you don't know what else to do. Everyone around you has bigger things to worry about than you. After all, it's been almost two months since you lost her, and no one seems to notice the changes.

You've abandoned your normal suits. She loved you in those, and for some reason, you can't bear to bother to dress up anymore for work.

You've stopped shaving. What does it matter how much facial hair you have when you're hurting this badly?

You're not sleeping much. Not that you slept much before she died, given the odd work hours the two of you held. Any nights you both had off, you were sharing your love. But now, sleeping is a chore, something your mind refuses to let you do.

You feel dull, drained, listless. Nothing matters anymore. She's not here anymore. You've lost your reason for living.

But she'd kill you if you hurt yourself.

Instead, you sit at your kitchen table, drinking from another bottle of beer. You're going through about a case a week, which should be alarming to you, but in your depressed mind, you don't care anymore. The alcohol numbs the pain and calms your mind just enough so you can pretend to sleep another night.

But it's taking more and more to feel anything.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder how no one around you is any wiser. A group of highly disciplined detectives, trained to spot the tiniest shred of evidence, don't seem to notice the downward spiral you're on.

Then again, they have more important things to worry about.

Serial killers, deadly shootings, muggings, and everything else you all encounter on a daily basis. The cases have been piling in, and you secretly wonder if it's a sign that the world is going to end. Frankly, though, you wouldn't mind if it did. Then you wouldn't have to hurt anymore.

Speaking of hurting, Danny is hurting worse than you've ever seen him, and you can't exactly muster up enough to try and cheer him up. Because you've seen that any attempt anyone has made to cheer up Danny has fallen flat. Your depressed mood isn't going to help him any. He needs to have hope and focus on recovery. He doesn't need you raining on his parade.

You take another long swig of beer, finishing off the bottle and pitching it into your recycling bin with a perfect arc. You miss playing Saturday basketball with Danny, but it wasn't the recent trauma of a gunshot to his spine that made you two stop those games. Things changed, life changed, and the two of you no longer had the time.

You hate yourself for that.

You hate yourself for a lot of things right now. You hate that you're not there for Danny like you should be. You hate that you're falling apart. You hate that you couldn't save Jess. You hate that you let your emotions get the best of you.

You hate that you executed someone.

You aren't _that_ guy. You're not the type to lose it like that. You don't go for revenge. You don't _kill_ people unless you absolutely have to. He didn't still have his gun. You didn't have to kill him.

But you did. And you hate yourself for that.

You stand up on your alcohol-infused legs, walking to your fridge. You pull out another beer, your fourth of the evening. You stumble back toward your table, sitting down on the chair again.

Your apartment is dimly lit, mostly because you're too lazy to turn on the brighter lights. The TV's off because there's nothing worth watching anymore. The radio's off because every song reminds you of her.

You close your eyes, if for no other reason than to see her, alive and well, yet again in your mind. The only thing you see is the darkness, and the anger burning in your soul. You open them again, your gaze falling to a nearby picture.

Her brother's wedding.

She had been so nervous about asking you to go with her, as the two of you had just started dating beforehand. You had smiled and graciously accepted to go with her, even though weddings never were your thing. You wanted to make her happy, though, and you'd take any excuse to see her dressed up.

You remember the way the sunlight caught her hair as you danced under the sunny skies of the outdoor reception. Her brother and his wife had moved to Hartford, Connecticut before the wedding, but they had chosen to get married at one of the mansions in Newport, Rhode Island. The whole place had been amazing to look at, but the historical beauty of the building had been nothing compared to the woman before you. Her soft, brown hair, delicately curled, bounced as she moved gracefully around the floor.

You, however, sucked at dancing.

You smile slightly at the memory, including the way she instructed you on how to dance. At least, with the faster songs. Slow dancing was something that was in your repertoire. You remember the way she laughed when you tried to keep up with Cotton Eye Joe, even though you had no idea what the moves were.

You'd give anything to have her here so you could go to another wedding together.

You're not surprised that the memory makes you want to cry for your loss. No tears fall, though, because you don't think your eyes can manage to make any more. You feel so empty, hollow, and you wish that things would get easier.

They don't. They won't. Not as long as she's dead and you're still here.

Your phone rings, and you hope that it isn't work calling. It shouldn't be, considering you're not on call, but you never know. You look at the caller ID. Lindsay. Something tells you that maybe you should answer. Something could be wrong with Danny.

"Hey, Linds," you answer quietly.

"Hey, Don," she replies. "We were wondering if you wanted to join us for dinner tomorrow after work. We haven't seen you in a while. It'd be nice for Lucy to see her favorite uncle."

You smile slightly when you think of Danny and Lindsay's daughter, now six months old. She's starting to pick up things, as well as grabbing at and terrorizing the dog whenever he was in reach. Part of you would love to go see them all, but the rest of you doesn't know if you could keep your façade up with them.

"Don?" Lindsay asks softly.

"I'm still here," you reply, thinking.

"We can go out if you want, or we can stay in. We'd just like to see you."

You contemplate reminding her that you see them every day at the lab, that Danny being injured reminds you of how much you wish it had been you and that it had pierced your heart. "I don't know," you tell her instead.

"Okay," she says softly, and you can tell she's upset with your answer. She wouldn't tell you, though. "Well, we're working tomorrow anyway, so you can always tell us then."

"Okay," you say softly. Part of you is getting mad that you're throwing away a chance to pull yourself out of this hell for one night. But the rest of you thinks about how much seeing Danny struggle hurts you. "How is Lucy doing?"

"She's doing well. She's starting to sit up against pillows and things."

You smile, taking a drink from your bottle.

"We're starting her on solid foods now. So far, she really likes peaches. But the best part is that she's still sleeping through the nights."

"That's awesome," you say, remembering how hard it's been for them to get rest. You take another drink.

"Speaking of our little princess, I have to get her bathed and ready for bed, so I'm going to have to let you go," she says, and her voice sounds almost regretful. Is that because she can hear your personal hell through the phone?

"Okay," you say, shaking the paranoia out of your head. "Give her a kiss for me."

"I will. And, please, think about coming to dinner with us tomorrow."

"I will." Your promise sounds almost sincere, but you know your lack of sincerity is more that you're tired than that you aren't considering it. "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow at work."

"Night, Don," she says before hanging up.

You sigh, putting your phone back down on the table before finishing your bottle. You arc that toward the recycling bin, and aren't too surprised when you miss. At least this one didn't shatter like the one two nights ago. You're still finding pieces of that one around.

You're starting to feel just numb enough to try to get some sleep, so you stand, walking toward the bathroom. You pass more of the pictures and decorations she insisted you have in your place, frowning.

Not for the first time, you realize you're afraid.

Afraid of facing tomorrow. Afraid of going to work and ending up in a life or death position. Afraid of living another day without her. Afraid of losing someone else.

Afraid you'll never move on.

Even though the thought scares you, you don't want to move on. You were ready to spend your life with her, and she's no longer here. You don't want to live without her. You feel like truly moving on would disgrace her.

Yet, that's not to say you haven't been with someone else. You have. But it was only sex, it meant nothing, and afterward, you felt worse than you had in years. You felt dirty, disgusting, heartbroken. You couldn't believe what you had done.

So you stopped going out. You started drinking alone in your apartment.

You brush your teeth, staring at your reflection in the mirror. The bags and dark circles growing under your eyes. The five o'clock shadow that is three days away from being a beard. The pale of your skin. The lack of luster in your once shining blue eyes. The unkempt hair on top of your head. The rumpled shirt.

You're a shell of your former self. And you have no idea how to get the rest back.

So for now, your plan is to go to bed. Tomorrow, you plan to get up, try to survive, and go back to bed. You walk out of the bathroom, considering Lindsay's offer. Perhaps going over to dinner wouldn't be too bad. And, if it gets unbearable, you can always say you're not feeling well and go home.

You just don't feel like going out.

Of course, going over for dinner means more pretending that you're not that bad. More of trying to fake that everything's okay. More of seeing Danny and Lindsay share in something that you can only wish you still had- love, a happy life, a reason for living.

You lay down in your bed, closing your eyes. You wish, and not for the first time, that it had been you in the diner. You would give anything to take her place. You'd give even more to have her back.

And your heart breaks more every time you realize that can never be.

For the first time in five weeks, tears slide down your face. With no one there to be any wiser, you allow them to fall freely, burying your face into her pillow. The one you can still smell her on. Your heart cries out for her while your eyes let the salty water flow from them. You squeeze the pillow, sobbing.

Your sobs begin to lessen as your body succumbs to the overwhelming fatigue. You pray that you could go back in time and make things right. Make sure she knew how much you loved her. Make sure that she would be safe and that she'd survive the day.

The last thought crossing your mind before you finally fall asleep is that you two were never meant to be.

_We're here and now,  
__But will we ever be again?  
_'_Cause I have found  
__All that shimmers in this world  
__Is sure to fade away again_


End file.
